Bar Scott

Last week a friend of mine asked how the fundraiser for my new CD had gone, which led me to describe the overall cost of the project. She was surprised by the numbers. Most people are. I told her I’d been thinking about writing the piece you’re reading now because I enjoy telling people how recordings are made and what they cost. I’ve always thought there’s a benefit to sharing the details. My hope is that people will understand why a copy of music (in the form of a CD or digital download) costs what it does, why it’s important to buy it (rather than share it*), and why I’m so grateful when my friends, family, and fans are willing to pay a little extra to help me get my work done.

*This may sound like a contradiction because it is: I like people to share my music. That’s because I don’t have much of an advertising budget, so when you share, there’s a chance your friend will go to iTunes or my website and see what else I’ve got. Lots of times your friends will buy another CD or song of mine, which is good. If you share my music, I hope you’ll encourage people to do that.

Because most people buy digital downloads these days, I’ve only printed 350 hard copies. That’s about 2700 fewer copies than I’ve made of previous CDs. I tell you this because the total below will need to be divided by 350 to get a unit price for each physical CD. Here’s a list of the costs associated with Journey:

Musicians: (other than me and Peter Tomlinson) $1500
Mixing/Mastering $2600
Additional Studio Time (not my studio, that is) $1000
Artwork/Print Lay-out $1400
Duplication $1350
Bar Codes $200
Advertising (print and direct mailing) $800
Shipping Envelopes $100
Postage for shipping $600
Fund Raising Costs (materials for things I made to raise money) $175
T-shirts $290
Website (redesign to support fund raiser) $400
CD Release Concert (food, wine, misc) $160
Photography (promo headshots of me)  $300
Travel (two trips to NY including food, rental cars, expenses) $1200

Total: $12,075

So, when I divide $12, 075 (rounded to $12,000) by 350 (the number of CDs I printed), I get $34.28/CD. Ouch! So until the CD is in the black, each time I sell a copy for $15, I’m paying $19.28 to ensure that the buyer hears my music. It’s not a good business model!

On the income side, I’ve raised $7400, which is good, but not enough to pay off the debt without printing more CDs. In other words, I’m hopeful that a lot of people will download the CD on iTunes.

Here’s the math on that: I work with a company called CDBaby. I sent them a copy of Journey which they’ve distributed to all the digital outlets they have relationships with including iTunes. CDBaby is my agent and toll collector. Every time someone buys one of my songs or a copy of the whole CD on-line, they take a cut then deposit the rest in my bank account. You pay .99 cents for a song, I get half of that; you pay $9.99 for the whole CD, I get about $4.70. Not bad considering I’m just sitting at home. When I get my statement from CDBaby every month, there are a lot of other bits and pieces of income too. Other digital outlets only pay 6 cents or 11 cents per song. Those are distributors that don’t charge the consumer anything to listen, so my royalty is based on their advertising income rather than on a purchase from a consumer. It adds up, but slowly.

So that gives you a ballpark idea of how things go for an independent musician like me. If you’re interested, I’ll be posting more details on my website in the next week or so. I’ll include things like: how many hours it took to record the 34 minutes of music that make up Journey, why it takes that long, how musicians get paid, how much studio time costs, what’s mastering, etc. Stay tuned. And thanks as always for your support.

Bar

Yesterday, two journalists from the local newspaper came by to interview me about a concert I’m doing next weekend. When they left, I thought of all the things I wished I’d said and all the things I wished I’d said better. One of the questions Jillian asked was, “What do you want from  this CD?” I’m not sure how I answered her, but later I thought: I want people to hear it and I want them to like it.

But if I’m honest with myself, not only do I want them to like it, I want to hear about it. If they’re like me, though, they won’t listen right away. They’ll listen when they have time or when it feels right, which may be weeks or even months from now. By then, I’ll have moved on. The songs will no longer be the only thing on my mind. My excitement will have worn off. I won’t be as needy by then. And that’s a good thing.

After Jillian and Jill left, I realized another thing: I want people to be interested too. Having the two of them here asking questions about how I write, or why I write, was a gift to me. I wondered, am I so self involved that all I want to do is talk about my work? Is it really that interesting? And the answer is, yes, to me, it is.

So I ask myself, Is the point of creating to be interesting to oneself or to be interesting to others? 

And I think it’s both. Most artists want both. Most people want both.

 PS Needless to say, if you want to write, please do! 

I love walking on the beach. My thoughts go all over the place: From the opening paragraph of another book I could write, to deciding whether it’s worth stopping to write down the words of the opening paragraph of the book I could write, to the last time Forrest tried to nurse, which was eleven hours before he died, to memories of Peter, his father, and me walking on this same beach, which I’d forgotten about, to missing Brent because I love how we laugh together all the time.

Some people avoid being alone. For me, it’s comforting and necessary. This is my second solitary walk on the Ocean Grove beach today. I did stop to jot down that paragraph I was thinking about. Because I just finished a new batch of songs, I’d like to write about how they came to be so I don’t forget, and because some people might be interested in that.

Right now, I’m scribbling on a crumpled piece of yellow paper I found in my pocket. (I’ll type it out later). I’m standing by the edge of the water, which means every minute or so I have to back up so my Nikes don’t get wet.

This morning it was raining like it did all weekend (I got here Saturday). This afternoon, it’s warm and sunny so I’ve taken off my hat to feel the heat on my face. Sometimes when I get to the beach I start to cry. Not from sadness, from relief. It’s as though all that water and those waves are scrubbing me off, taking away all my tiredness and worry. One of the things I thought about today was how lucky I am. That can make me cry too. Here I am with time to walk on the beach and think about things. I wondered this morning if a father, let’s say, who was an artist before he had to move his family to a refugee camp in Eastern Europe, still took the time to wonder about his circumstances. Did he still think about how he would draw it or write it? My guess is, he would, but it’s a whole lot easier for me.

Saturday night I read Art and Fear, a book by David Bayles and Ted Orland. I read it in its entirety before every workshop I lead, something I’m doing this weekend. I recommend it to all my students too, although I’m not sure anyone has ever read it. At least they’ve never told me they have. Ted and David write about creativity – why we do it, why we quit doing it, and what inhibits us along the way. I don’t think they ever talk directly about fear, but they suggest that that’s what keeps many of us from digging deep and getting our creative work done. I agree. On page 92, near the end of the book, the authors talk about books that artists write that describe their process. They end with: “Every artist could write such a book. You could write such a book.” When I read that last sentence, I knew it was the book I wanted to write and will. That’s what the paragraph I wrote on the beach this afternoon is for.

Now, I can hear the ocean and the wind from my third floor room. Feeling the moisture, seeing the ocean, and walking on sand has done me a world of good. The Methodist Tabernacle at the center of this town is ringing its bells. 6:00. Time for the day to wind down. Time for me to eat again.

Journey, the new CD, is finished. I left Dave Cook, the engineer, in his studio about an hour ago. I love being in his space. I love working closely with him; listening to every phrase, every note, every pitch, every part, just to be sure we’ve got it as close to what we want as possible. We could keep changing things for days, but at a certain point, it’s time to say: we’re done.

To be honest, I left in a hurry so I wouldn’t cry. When a recording is finished, there’s a part of me that doesn’t want it to be done. The process of writing is so consuming and enjoyable. It’s me alone with me making something out of nothing. With the help of a few trusted friends, I see my imaginings come to life, then poof, it’s done and the rest of the world is invited in. Most don’t know what it took to get to this point. All anyone will here is 34 minutes of music. 11 songs. But behind those songs are years of trying to figure out what needs to be written and how. I lose sleep. I live with the music on my walks in the morning, when I’m eating my meals, when I’m talking with friends. It’s on-going and endless, and I love every minute of it.

Now, others will decide whether they like what they hear or not; whether it means anything to them or not. I want them to like it, of course, but after all these years, I don’t worry about that so much anymore.

I taught a class at the local high school last week about the business of music. We were talking about all the ways a single song can generate revenue. One of the students, a senior, asked me at the end of the hour what motivated me to write. It seemed like he wanted to know because he wanted to write too. I told him some people write to make others dance, some to make money, others to get famous (or rich or loved) but that I wrote because I wanted to understand my self and the world better. As I was answering I welled up because writing has become so important to me. My survival in many ways. I was grateful when I could see that he understood.

So the songs are written. They’re recorded in one of a hundred ways they could have been recorded. The versions I settled on are ready to be duplicated and sold and sent out to anyone who wants to hear them. They represent a little bit of what I’ve felt and seen in the last five years.

I’m sad because another stage of my life is behind me. And I’m happy too, because I love how it’s turned out.
Thank you for being part of the journey.


Love, Bar

Five years and twelve songs later, I can finally say, this recording is done…almost. What I mean is that all the lyrics are written, vocals are sung, piano and guitar parts are recorded, and there’s nothing more I can do. By this time next week, I’ll really be done. By then, Dave Cook will have mixed all the songs, and my friend Lucy will have the final master to send out to the duplicator. I can hardly wait.

I’m not sure what to say here this afternoon except “thank you.” So many of you have helped to make this final stage possible. I don’t know where I’m headed with this recording yet. I’ve never put a CD out without scheduling the requisite shows to promote it. This last couple of weeks, I’ve resisted booking anything. I’m not sure why except that most of the venues I know are in New York and I live in Colorado. Traveling back and forth is becoming increasingly difficult and expensive. Every time I go back to Woodstock, I’m so glad to see everyone, but I’m also torn.

Once I have copies in hand, and your responses to lean on, maybe then my path will become clear. For now, I’m just glad the songs are written, and that there is at least one version of each recorded.

Thank you again and again.

Love,
 Bar

Two weeks ago, my friend Cathy gave me a book called How to be Idle: a Loafer’s Manifesto. I can’t remember what prompted her to lend it to me, but I must have been fretting about my tendency to be over-busy, even to the point of being short with friends, short with my time at the piano, short with Brent, short with pretty much everything I care about. Without saying a word, she got up from her couch, walked over to the bookshelf, pulled out the book and handed it to me. I laughed when I saw the title, then told her I’d bring it back as soon as I was done. She smiled, knowing it was just the right thing.

Despite the book’s title and the cartoon of a guy sitting at a table with a cigarette and a pint of beer, the content of the book is serious. The author, Tom Hodgkinson, advocates for all of us to slow down, take a nap, quit our jobs if they’re boring you us death. He argues that most of us are spending too much time doing things we don’t enjoy. It’s Buddha talk in 21st century language, and exactly the message I needed to hear.

I decided I would dedicate last week to seeing what it felt like to only do those things I really enjoyed, and only do them when I felt like doing them. Tricky business when I’m finishing up a new recording and there are a million things left to do. But guess what I learned (and was reminded of as I began to delete the ‘million’ in the previous sentence): that I exaggerate to myself the number of things I have to do; and, I always, like just now, use language in my head and with others, that reminds me, incorrectly, that I have a million things to do when in fact, I do not. I have much to do, like we all do, but I don’t have a million things to do. All last week, I stopped myself from being busy when I wasn’t really busy, and all last week, I was happier and much, much easier to live with (according to both my husband and my self).

To be honest, I missed writing my blog last week. The reason I did was because I was doing some other writing that was floating my boat so I let it go for a week. It was a good feeling to adjust in that way. I’m not sure I recommend Tom’s book to everyone, but if you tend to overwork, and especially if you tell yourself you have so much to do when you don’t, it might be worth your reading it. The idea I found most powerful that he writes about is that better creative work is done when a person has time to reflect, to rest, to dream and contemplate. I think that’s true. It was nice of Tom to give me permission to take that time.

Last Friday I decided to avoid the phone and stay off my computer for the whole weekend. I’d spent too many hours at my desk last week and needed a break. It was the right thing to do.

Today, after two days away, there’s been a windfall. My college roommate called. My friends Annie and Maureen called. My friend Ann who I’ve known longer than anyone else in my life wrote a long email. I hadn’t heard from her in years. And then a high school friend, Sarah, wrote too. Needless to say, I haven’t gotten any work done today, but I’ve been smiling since I woke up.

Over the weekend, while the computer was turned off, Brent and I got sucked into the House of Cards phenomenon on Netflix. We’d watched Season One at a reasonable pace the preceding weeks, but once we got started with Season Two on Saturday morning, it was a marathon. Taking the time for this sort of mindless mini vacation was valuable. I slept long and hard last night. Woke up feeling as good as I’ve felt in years.

It’s gotten me thinking about the history of weekends. Saturdays or Sundays have been Sabbath days for centuries. My guess is that the concept of two days off each week is a modern idea. For me, it’s hard to discern between days off and days at work if email is involved. My personal and professional lives overlap too much with email. The only way I can take a true day off is to stay away from my computer.

Thanks to everyone who bought a CD or sent a donation in response to the fundraising campaign we launched last week. In addition to the long emails and phone calls I’ve had with old friends today, I got a bunch of your gifts this morning. It’s been a really good day. I can’t tell you how much your help lifts my spirits. Not only is the weather outside spring-like, I feel like my own spring is at hand.

Love to you all, Bar

Yesterday was the 12th anniversary of Forrest’s death. I always take the day off. It’s not a particularly sad day, just one that I like to separate from the rest. I don’t do email or anything else on the internet, I don’t plan anything, I just get up in the morning and do whatever it is I want to do.

Brent made breakfast for me, which was nice except that it was 6:30 in the morning when he delivered it. The gesture was so sweet, and so like him, that I rallied, ate, then went back to sleep while he walked the dogs. Decadent. I never miss walking the dogs. When I finally got up for what we call second breakfast, it was 9:00. There was no point in getting dressed since the dogs had already been out, so I stayed in my PJs until they had to go out again at 2:00. In the meantime, I finished a book by Louise Penny called Still Life, and finished all the easy parts of a puzzle we’re working on. At 6:00, 60 Minutes came on, then the McCartney/Starr reunion celebrating the night the Beatles debuted on Ed Sullivan 50 years ago, then Downton Abbey. Finally, at 10:30, we went back to bed and I slept as well as I ever have. It reminds me that un-busy days lead to sleep-filled nights.

This morning I’ve woken with a bit of sadness. Not about Forrest, although his absence is probably wrapped up in my emotions. Every day there’s a choice for me: enjoy the process of making music, books or anything else I like to create, or, get to work and promote that same creative output. Needless to say, there’s a balance. But the bigger question nags at me: how badly do I want the bigger prizes? Do I want to be insanely driven, working 16 hours a day, which is what it takes to get somewhere in the fields that I’m working in, or, find a more sane blend of creative time and promotional time in each day and not shoot for the stars. To be honest, I don’t know the answer. There are days when I’m dying for more success. I want my music to be heard, I want to sing for as many people as I can find; then there are other days when the joy of singing alone in my studio is so profound that I can’t imagine needing anything more.

Today, I’ll work towards the bigger goal because there are new songs that I want to share. To do so, many things have to be put into place. I’ll work on those things this morning. Later today, I’ll fix a piano part, check a vocal I recorded that I’m not sure of, and then sit down to work on the lyrics for the last song I have to record. They’ve eluded me so far, but I’m hopeful.

I’ve spent most of the morning updating banking information for Sound Exchange, which is a company that distributes royalties to musicians like me. Turns out all the work I did this morning was already done, by me, within the last year. Meanwhile, there’s a guy in my bathroom tearing up the tile he installed eight months ago. The grout failed, so he’s doing it over again. I can hear him grumbling and swearing as though it was someone else’s fault even though it’s just one of those things. He had insurance. He’s getting paid, but he’s grumbling anyway. Neither of us is having a great day, but I’m in a better mood than him.

My problem is I have too many things I want to do. I want there to be more time in the day. I don’t want to have to prioritize and not get to do everything.

For instance: I finished another lyric (second-to-last, hallelujah!) and I really want to record the vocals today. Alas, the tile guy is making too much noise. And because the CD is almost done (hallelujah#2) I have a lot of business to take care of: songs to register at various licensing agencies, songs to post on itunes, Pandora, and similar outlets; money to raise, letters to write, headshots to take, artwork to complete for the CD cover, video to shoot, new website host to advise on how to update my site, learn how to let him do his job and not do it for him, finish one last tune, do my taxes, file 1099s, you get the picture. I know every single one of you has a similar list so I don’t feel alone, but I still want more time to play the piano, write more songs, write a book or two, make stuff, cook, eat, have friends over, and walk the dogs.

As I get older, I find what I want to do more than anything is slow down. I still tend to function at high speed, but gradually life in rural Colorado is teaching me how to let things go. I make lists. I check things off. Somehow, the things that are most important get done.